


New Moon

by Anonymous



Category: Original Work
Genre: Actual Ball of Sunshine Werewolf, M/M, Roommates, Why Won't Some Hunter Stake Me Already Vampire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-05
Updated: 2018-02-05
Packaged: 2019-03-14 08:08:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13585887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Scenes from the first day Harold "Harry" Harris came to stay.





	New Moon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spokenitalics](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spokenitalics/gifts).



The first time Count Maggart Zaff Nicodemus diFlorea met his future husband, Harold "Harry" Harris, it did not go well. 

***

Count Maggart Zaff Nicodemus diFlorea had just sat down for breakfast when there came a knock on the door.

This was vexing for a number of reasons, the primary being that there had been a  _ knock  _ on his  _ door _ . Human custom dictated he must open it, from which followed that he would have to talk to the intruder for seconds at least, and possibly minutes. He would have to turn them away, and that might take time, or he would have to kill them and drink their blood, which would take less time, but he was on a diet.

There was a  _ reason _ he lived halfway up a mountain on a road made impassable by most human modes of conveyance. He valued his peace and he cherished his quiet, and most of all he treasured them both together.

Another knock sounded.

He looked down at his morning mug of blood, already congealing, and sighed. 

Count Maggart Zaff Nicodemus diFlorea opened the heavy door of his house to find a most incongruous sight: the back of a six-foot tall black man silhouetted against the starry sky of a moonless night. He wore a sweater bearing a chaotic pattern of clashing florescent colors: pinks and oranges and yellows splattered across his back with no consideration for symmetry or harmony. The chaos was broken only by a teal backpack with a broken zipper slung over one shoulder. The whole effect set his fangs on edge. 

The man’s jeans were threadbare and one of his shoes was untied, laces dragging the ground. It was almost too much to bear.

Count Maggart Zaff Nicodemus diFlorea cleared his throat with efficiency, making a noise that was insistent but not rude, firm but not obnoxious. The man turned around, saw Count Maggart Zaff Nicodemus diFlorea, grinned, and stuck out his hand.

“Hi there!” he said. “I’m Harold! Harold Harris.”

Harold reached down and grabbed Count Maggart Zaff Nicodemus diFlorea’s hand, pumping it up and down enthusiastically. 

His glasses were crooked, and at least 20 years out of style. 

“Charmed, I’m sure,” Count Maggart Zaff Nicodemus diFlorea said, icily. 

“Great,” Harold said, still grinning, but looking a little confused. “The Council sent me?” he said, adjusting the strap of his bulging backpack. 

“Oh?” asked Count Maggart Zaff Nicodemus diFlorea. “Why?”

“You know, the initiative?” Harold said, as though that explained anything. 

“No,” he said.

“It was the big issue in last year’s election?” Harold said hopefully. “You know, Initiative 108?”

“I never pay any attention to the comings and goings of those meddlers.” 

“Hm,” Harold said. “I don’t suppose you open your mail, then, huh?”

Count Maggart Zaff Nicodemus diFlorea bared his fangs. “No.”

“Cool,” Harold said. “Cool, um, well… You see...”

“Out with it,” Count Maggart Zaff Nicodemus diFlorea hissed. It could be hard to hiss words without any sibilants, but Count Maggart Zaff Nicodemus diFlorea could pull it off.

“I’m your new roommie,” Harold said, shrugging.

Count Maggart Zaff Nicodemus diFlorea’s jaw dropped as the young man sidled his way into the entryway of his house and kicked off his shoes. He had forgotten, momentarily, that the edict against unwanted house guests did not include anyone of the non-vampiric persuasion.

“Nice place!” he said, as Count Maggart Zaff Nicodemus diFlorea’s throat flexed, trying to find the correct expletive with which to banish this intruder from his home. “I’m going to take a look around.” 

***

“Hey Count?”

Count Maggart Zaff Nicodemus diFlorea heard the call from the adjacent room, but chose to ignore it. He was sitting in his armchair, stewing. 

Come morning, he would call into town. It was ridiculous that the council kept (he nearly choked at the thought)  _ mortal hours _ . They said it helped harbor a sense of good feelings amongst the mortals. He thought it was a ridiculous farce. They had always been beasts of the night, why should they concern themselves with public relations? 

His only relation to the public had once been to rip their throats out, though, come to think of it, it had been decades since he’d had a night out. 

“Hey, Count?” 

Count Maggart Zaff Nicodemus diFlorea nearly jumped out of his skin at the gentle question. He bared his teeth at the sheepish man now standing before him. “What?” he snapped, then kicked himself. “And you may call me Count Maggart Zaff Nicodemus diFlorea,” he added in a more magnanimous tone.

“It’s just… this house isn’t as big as I thought,” Harold said. “I’m going to have to take the room next to yours, if that’s okay?”

Bats alive, he’d forgotten that this man held the preposterous opinion of… shared space. 

“The library?” Count Maggart Zaff Nicodemus diFlorea. “No, you may not sleep in the library.” 

“Um,” Harold said, looking around. “Everywhere else is a little,” he paused, uncomfortable, “dusty. And I have a sensitive nose.” 

“I see,” Count Maggart Zaff Nicodemus diFlorea said. “You know, it is rude for a houseguest to comment on the host’s cleaning habits.”

“Hey, it’s no big deal,” Harold said. “I’ll help clean up tomorrow morning. For now, though, I do need a place to crash.” 

“You absolutely will not help me clean up tomorrow morning,” Count Maggart Zaff Nicodemus diFlorea said. “Firstly, this entire household has been curated over the course of centuries,  _ centuries _ , to be exactly as I wish for it to be. Secondly, in the morning, you will allow me to use your… e-tel and I will call the Council. And then you will march right back down this mountain and tell them this will not do.”

“My… my what?” Harold asked.

“You know, your.” Count Maggart Zaff Nicodemus diFlorea gestured futilely, until he finally mimed a cranking motion, and said, “Tallyho?” to the air.

Harold was looking at him with gentle laughter sparkling in his eyes, and he hated it. 

“Yo, Count, is that how you think phones still work?” he asked.

“Of course not,” Count Maggart Zaff Nicodemus diFlorea sputtered. “I know you use a vowell to begin the word now, and that it somehow functions  _ sans wires _ . I presume you are carrying one on your person, which I will use to communicate with the Council as soon as dawn breaks.”

“I don’t think they open until 9.” 

“Very well. I will use it to speak the Council as soon as the nine o’clock bell hath rung.”

“Is that… are you doing a bit?” 

“What?”

“Do you normally speak like that?” Harold asked, and his mouth half-smirking. It was infuriating. 

“Speak like what?”

“‘As soon as the nine o’clock bell hath rung,’” Harold mimicked. “That’s just too good!”

“I normally speak not at all!” Count Maggart Zaff Nicodemus diFlorea shouted, and Harold’s eyebrows shot up at the outburst. It was true: this conversation was likely the first time he’d spoken more than three words to another person in, well, in a very long while. 

Harold shifted from his heels to his toes and back again, his hands clasped behind his back. 

“Great,” he said, breaking the silence after a few seconds. “I’ll just go ahead and set up my blanket in the library. Good night, Count.”

Count Maggart Zaff Nicodemus diFlorea snarled in return. 

***

Only a few hours had passed before Count Maggart Zaff Nicodemus diFlorea heard rustling from the library. He’d been spending the night deep in thought, steepling his fingers to the breaking point, and he had prepared for at least another three hours of thinking. It was before daybreak, and the (he curled his lip with disdain)  _ young man _ looked to be the type who liked to sleep in. That’s what the youths these days did, was it not? 

Harold emerged from the library, rubbing sleep from his eyes. 

“G’morning, Count,” he said, yawning and stretching. 

Count Maggart Zaff Nicodemus diFlorea swallowed, drily. It had been a while since he’d seen another man’s, well, midsection, and he quickly looked down at his hands to avoid being caught staring. 

“I thought your kind wouldn’t be up before daybreak,” he said.

“What do you mean, ‘your kind,’ man?” asked Harold, lips pursed, eyebrows drawn together. “Do you mean like black people? Or like werewolves? Because one of those is racist and the other’s definitely discriminatory in some capacity.”

Count Maggart Zaff Nicodemus diFlorea flapped his hands about. “Ah, no, apologies,” he said. “I meant young mortals. But you are not a mortal, and possibly not young. Instead you are… a werewolf. Interesting.” He went back to steepling his fingers.

“Yeah, man, I thought you knew,” Harold said. “Can’t you, like, smell it on me or something?”

“Tragically, no,” Count Maggart Zaff Nicodemus diFlorea said mournfully, and swept out of his chair with a flourish. He crowded Harold against the kitchen counter. “I lost my sense of smell while still mortal, and therefore all matters olfactory are out of my reach. And you may call me Count Maggart Zaff Nicodemus diFlorea. Not,” he said, and used his fingers to denote quotation marks in the air, “‘man.’”

“Yeah?” Harold asked, ducking out from under him and over to his knapsack. “How about this: for now I’ll call you Count. We can renegotiate after I’ve had my coffee.” 

***

At 9 a.m. precisely, Harold dialed the number for the local Council office, and put the phone on speaker mode. After a few rings, a perky woman’s voice answered and identified herself as Druilla.

“Hello!” the Count shouted into the receiver. “I am Count Maggart Zaff Nicodemus diFlorea and I am filing an official complaint!”

“Sir? Sir! You don’t have to shout into the phone sir!” Druilla said. The Count looked at Harold, who had dissolved into silent laughter. He glowered at him.

“Fine!” he said, speaking only slightly louder than normal. “I am calling to lodge a complaint against this young werewolf, Harold…” He couldn't remember Harold’s last name. He looked over at him, beseechingly. 

“Harris,” he said. “Harold Harris. Lycanthrope as of last month.”

_ Last month?  _ the Count thought. What?

“Ah, yes, I have your records pulled up,” Druilla said. “How are you enjoying cohabitation?”

“That’s just it!” the Count shouted into the telephone. Harold made a shushing motion, still smiling. “This is an infringement on my rights!”

“Sir, this is all part of Initiative 108. Surely you’ve heard of it?” she asked.

“Vaguely.”

“One of the provisions is for new members of the immortal sect to be housed with more experienced members, for a period of at least three years. This is to help acclimate them to our way of life, our norms, and proper behavior,” she said.

“I have no wish to mentor this… young man,” the Count said, making eye contact with Harold, who just smiled and shook his head.

“There is of course section 131b, which requires that isolated elderly immortals be paired with younger immortals as companions. We’ve found it helps with socialization, depression, and general malaise.”

“Elderly?” the Count asked, a hand flying to his chest. “Me? I’ll have you know I’m not a day over twenty-four.”

“Indeed. And how long have you been twenty-four, sir?”

“That’s… not important.”

Harold looked like he was fighting a grin. 

“I don’t need a companion,” the Count said, but he could tell he’d already lost.

“It’s modeled off an extremely successful program in mortal retirement homes. They pair the elderly with younger support animals. Harold is like your support animal,” she said. 

Harold snorted, and hid his grin with his hand. 

“How long will this last again?” the Count asked.

“Indefinitely,” Druilla answered.

“Enough,” the Count sighed. “No more of this.” He rose from the table, wearily, and stalked off toward his bed. He hadn’t slept in a coffin for more than a century. 

“Thank you, Druilla,” Harold said into the phone, and hung up.


End file.
